


The Right Fit

by salixbabylon



Category: Real Person Fiction, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-17
Updated: 2005-04-19
Packaged: 2019-09-06 18:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16837621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salixbabylon/pseuds/salixbabylon
Summary: Orlando feels like his body doesn't belong to him anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

He doesn't like them really, doesn't like the way these muscles look. Doesn't like how they feel. Skin stretched tight. It hurt making them, of course, building them up. Too many hours in the gym. They feel like a costume, like something he's wearing just for a role and of course that's exactly what they are; things he built up to get certain roles, and in certain roles. And one those roles just happens to be 'movie star.'

He hears the fans like the muscles, that they went nuts over his chest in the scenes in "Troy," and they're already going crazy over it in the scene in "Kingdom of Heaven," at least the bits that are out in the trailers so far. And he thinks it's weird because it's not him, it's not part of him, it doesn't even look like him.

Not that he liked being skinny, really; who would want to be skinny all the time? But that was more what he was, it was more *him*, it fit better. Better than this, these muscles that feel bulky and too firm and make his chest look strange and made him go up a shirt size, across the *chest* -- how fucking weird is that?

And when he looks in the mirror after a shower and sees himself from the waist up, with his long, straightened hair, he sees someone wearing a costume for a role called 'movie star' and even though it's not a role that's going to be filmed, it's certainly going to be taped and photographed plenty.

He didn't like being skinny, but then again, that got him parts, right? I mean, even if he had been this bulky, he probably wouldn't have gotten the role of Faramir, because Peter thought he was too young. And now he admits that if someone Dave's age was what Pete wanted, then yes, Orlando was too young. But if he hadn't been skinny, he would never have been considered for an elf. And then who knows where his career would be now. Probably not anywhere near where it is, what it has become: a role unto itself.

But when he thinks about it, he really hates how he looks. So much has changed so quickly; the last few years have flashed by. The muscles don't fit him any more than the mohawk did, and it feels equally strange, like he's trying to be something he isn't. Only now the man he's trying to be has straight hair and defined pecs instead of a boy with a mohawk and stupid shirts that made people laugh so they wouldn't notice how nervous he was, so they wouldn't laugh at his acting, but at how silly he looked. And so they wouldn't call him beautiful, which frankly gets on his fucking nerves. He knows he's attractive, yeah, I mean, after this many magazine covers, it would be stupid to say he's not.

But it just doesn't fit well, this new image, with the muscles and the straight hair and getting older. Sure, everyone gets older, but so much has happened over the last couple of years and it's all just gone by too fast to be real. He isn't sure he wants to be the Orlando that he's become. The one who's famous, the one who can't even take his dog out for a walk without having stalkerazzi right outside the gate, filming and photographing him opening the door to get inside. And that's on days when they're polite and he pretends they're not there and ignores them and they let him.

He just doesn't know how everyone else can do it; it's already driving him crazy. And he's nowhere near as big as his agent wants him to be. She thinks he could be the next Brad Pitt. He doesn't want to be the next Brad Pitt. He wouldn't mind being as famous as, say, Sean Bean, and he definitely doesn't want to be as obscure as Viggo was before "Rings" pushed him into the spotlight, but he just doesn't know how to be who he is.

Or what he wants to be...

Sean just seems like he grew into it slowly, and that was good because he was kind of obscure for a long time and then was Sharpe, but he could travel out of Britain and not be recognized, not be stalked. But it's just getting ridiculous for Orlando and it makes something in him panic, and he's got all these newly-made muscles and too much energy and every now and then he just wants to punch somebody. He knows he can't, that that would just make everything five times worse than anything else that could happen. But still, it's all so fucking frustrating; it feels like he's constantly wearing a costume, like he fucking altered himself, altered his whole fucking body for them, and he doesn't like it and doesn't know what to do about it.

And he knows Sean's never done anything like that, changed for them; that's just who he was, how he has always been built... And Pitt, well, several years ago he went through a stage of looking pretty scruffy and ugly and unwashed, trying to make the paparazzi go away. It worked pretty well, kind of, only not because there were still enough pictures of him that even Orlando had seen them, right? And god knows he certainly never was the sort to read celebrity mags. So no, it didn't work, or at least not well enough... And Viggo, well, he manages to cope with it by just refusing to even be in the limelight, and still gets pretty good roles. As many as he wants, at any rate.

Orlando wonders what Viggo is up to these days, what Viggo would say if he heard all this rambling. Probably anyone would think that he was just the most ungrateful little brat ever, and that's not true; he is grateful, but he's frustrated, too.

Viggo... What's Viggo doing now, anyway? Orlando thinks he heard Viggo was somewhere on location, wonders if it's anywhere nearby. Or maybe he's back now... Thinks about all those rumors of the two of them shagging. He always thought they were kind of funny, but then again, he also always kind of wished they were true. He knows Viggo knew about them, since the Hobbits loved to bring them up when they were all together. And Viggo always just laughed, and after a beat Orlando would laugh too. Viggo would smile his crazy smile and say something about not being good enough for this prissy elf, yet, or some crazy shit like that... Orlando was the one who was never good enough for Viggo, of course...

Not that he'd really even tried.

That was another thing he wasn't anymore; he used to be bisexual. Now it's just girls. Just girls who are too thin and slightly whiney and want him to be something he isn't, namely the next Brad Pitt. Or Colin Farrell or someone else. And he isn't. He feels so... *trapped*. And he doesn't know what to do.

He has a break right before shooting for the "Pirates" sequels start for him, two weeks when they don't need him. He has to get out. Where can he go? He can go anywhere in the world he wants, which is a pretty bloody crazy thought that he still hasn't totally gotten used to. He's traveled fucking everywhere for film stuff, places he'd never thought he'd ever go to when he was a kid. As a student actor he'd always thought he'd mostly do theater; that would teach him to think.

And the friends he used to have in London have pretty much all drifted away at this point; there isn't anyone he even knows well anymore that he hasn't worked on a movie with. There isn't anyone who feels like family, and his actual family feels so far away. The people who felt like family, well, the closest he's gotten to that in recent years was the "Rings" crew... He could go see Bean in London, but that wouldn't be restful at all. 'Lijah and Karl are here in LA; Johnny and Keira will be busy with the film.

But now he feels like the distant cousin who went way to university and doesn't write or phone very often. He knows the others would still love him, but he also knows there will be some resentment that he's done so well, and many of them haven't. Or at least, that's what he thinks; he doesn't really talk to them enough to be sure.

Bean he gets on with splendidly, but London wasn't going to be a relaxing scene. So no... Thinking of Bean reminds him of Bana, who is great too, definitely treats him like he really is a younger brother, but he's married and has kids... And the person Orlando really wants to see is Viggo.

The one person he doesn't think would want to see him.

So he phones Sean in London, figuring one single man to another would be better because Eric's just too married and full of kids these days. He talks to Bean for a while, broaches the subject of coming to visit him in London. Bean says he's welcome to, but Sean's going to be busy doing a spot for the BBC. They talk a bit more, Bean suggesting different places to go, all of which are too public, too many possible fans watching him, for the escape that Orlando wants. Finally Sean suggests he call Viggo, if he really wants to get away from everything. Reminds Orlando about the ranch out in Idaho. Orlando thanks him for the suggestion and rings off.

After a few hours of fretting and trying to figure out what to say, he gives Viggo a ring, with nothing at all scripted in his mind.

Viggo is distant and unfocused, but not any more so than what Orlando remembers to be usual. Viggo invites him to the ranch as soon as he hears how tired he is, that he's been working non-stop, and that he has a break coming up.

Viggo's like that though; it doesn't mean anything special. He'd do that for any friend who was stressed out and overwhelmed and tired. "My retreat," Viggo calls it; "Come to my retreat." Orlando definitely feels like retreating these days, not advancing, not moving forward.

So he agrees, somehow lets Viggo talk him into doing it *right now*, then calls his assistant, and now he has nine hours to pack up what he wants to take with him and get to the airport. Apparently Viggo will meet him there and they can fly out together.


	2. Chapter 2

The flight isn't too bad, barely over two hours. Viggo apologizes for being exhausted, saying he's been up the last few nights and days painting something he needed to finish, and then falls asleep. Orlando tries not to think, to clear his mind; to ignore the lustful glances from the flight attendant and the gaze of the woman in the row across from him who probably wants his autograph. Is a little paranoid about being recognized with Viggo, but tries to let that feeling go. Closes his eyes and pretends he's sleeping, too.

When they get to the cabin it's about as rustic as Orlando expected. A real cabin in the woods: two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen, and a lounge. Outside is a shed Viggo says he's turned into a studio, complete with darkroom, and a barn for the horses, when Viggo is here. Otherwise they stay with his brother Charles, who lives a few hours away. Maybe tomorrow, Viggo says, they'll go get the horses and have lunch with his brother, if Orlando wouldn't mind.

The place is a little dusty but not too stale; Viggo says he was here about a month ago and hadn't expected to come back quite so soon. Says that he certainly doesn't mind at all, though; he's always more than happy to get out of LA. After a moment he adds that it's nice to have Orlando here with him, too.

Orlando isn't looking forward to another long drive; the trip from the airport in Boise had been long enough. But then they could go riding later, which would be nice. He just feels... Well, disconnected, really. He doesn't feel like he fits in his body, still, and he can't blame jet lag or anything else this time. Doesn't feel like he fits here. His body is an object, a made thing, and it belongs in Los Angeles where it can be photographed going in and out of his house and getting in and out of hired cars. It's ridiculous, really, but he almost feels more like that's where he is meant to be, that's what he has become...

He's turned into a movie star; he's not an actor anymore. Wasn't it meant to be about the acting, though? When had that changed? Then again, isn't he acting all the time now, sun-up to sundown, and all through the night as well...

And Viggo, well, he loves being around Viggo of course. But so far it doesn't fit the way he'd hoped, either. It doesn't fit the way they had fit in New Zealand, and Orlando doesn't know if it will ever fit the same again. He doesn't even know if he wants it to fit the same. That had been good, but well, a bit tense, what with the always wanting more and always knowing Viggo thought he was just too young and stupid...

At least they were still friends, though, even if it isn't comfortable, wasn't what Orlando had wanted. It's still good.

They have a quick meal and call it an early evening; Viggo's still dead tired. He promises to wake Orlando up with decent tea and breakfast, and then they will get going early to pick up the horses and maybe do some riding once they get back.

Orlando sleeps fitfully, in the bed that is Henry's most of the time, or a guest's when Henry isn't here with Viggo. It's somebody's bed, though, not an impersonal hotel bed, and it smells like normal detergent, not bleach. It's a good smell, a homey smell, but this isn't his home. He doesn't feel like he has a home, anywhere... Tense and out of place, Orlando still feels like his body doesn't belong to him.

***

As they ride across a meadow dotted with clumps of snow and the first determined wildflowers, Viggo asks if he wants to talk about anything. Orlando says no. He's not lying; there's a lot on his mind but it's all bullshit and he doesn't want to say it out loud, make it real. Bring it here.

He wants to get away from it.

Three more days pass, with horseback riding and hiking, even a brief fishing trip. They don't talk a lot and the silence is almost comfortable. Orlando knows Viggo is giving him space, letting him open up when he wants to. He doesn't feel pressured exactly, but still feels that Viggo is waiting for something. Wonders if Viggo will be disappointed if the two weeks pass and Orlando goes back to filming and never spills his guts.

Doesn't really know what he'd say anyway. That he hates his body? His hair annoys him? That being famous sucks?

Right.

Today was spent mostly in solitude while Viggo worked by himself in the darkroom and Orlando... well, slept, mostly, with a brief hike and a short phone call to his assistant to see how Sidi was doing to break up the monotony. He could have gone out riding or read a book or something, but instead he just did a whole lot of nothing. Because his thoughts are nothing, and he can't fucking stop his brain from thinking.

Tonight though, they've opened a bottle of whiskey that Viggo has provided and are talking about New Zealand. Orlando knows he's drinking more than he should, but hell, he isn't an inexperienced twenty-two year old anymore. Fuck, he even has more muscle mass now, right, so that means he should get pissed more slowly.

But it doesn't work. Even though he knows it's all shit, the words come spilling out his mouth anyway. Viggo just nods and listens, not seeming surprised at all, just a little sad.

Orlando goes off about the fans who won't give him a moment of privacy, the stalkerazzi (and Viggo smiles at his word for them) who would videotape him taking a shit if they could, the constant drain of energy it is to always be avoiding people, always hiding, always trying to be polite and them always fucking wanting *more* of him. He tells Viggo about how he hasn't even been into a market in three years in LA or London because he simply *can't*, unless they close the whole place down so it's just him in the shop. And about how he needed to have his brows waxed for a thing in Toronto and the woman who did it told the press, and now they have someone come to him to do that sort of thing, because he can't go to a fucking salon without it being in the papers later.

After few more shots, which he pours himself with a slightly sloppy hand, but Viggo doesn't stop him or even look at him as if he wants to, and Orlando starts talking about girls. How he liked Kate but they never clicked and he was sick of her wanting him to be more or different, and she was sick of him not being Orlando Fucking Bloom, and they ended things. They still go hiking with the dogs sometimes, though, and that's nice...

Viggo nods and agrees that that is nice, when things are still amiable after a breakup. Chuckles and says it almost sounds like him and Exene, with the dogs standing in for Henry. Orlando joins his mirth, and their laughter trails off into slightly pissed giggles.

Orlando has another drink.

He tells Viggo he hates being himself.

Viggo looks ever so slightly puzzled, so Orlando explains that he hates his body, his muscles, his hair, his clothes, his life, his bloody fucking *name*. That sometimes he can't even bear to think of himself as 'Orlando' anymore, because the name is a thing, a commodity. It isn't him. It's an entity unto itself, and he almost wishes he could go by his middle name or something, find another word for who he really is.

Viggo asks what his middle name is and Orlando answers: Jonathan. Half of him is relieved that Viggo doesn't know these idiotic details about him, unlike some of the stalker-type fans. The other half is disappointed that Viggo doesn't know him that well. He knows Viggo's middle name, after all: Peter.

The room has gone silent and Orlando's sniffle that this thought produces sounds loud and melodramatic and pathetic and stupid and maybe he should be going to bed before he does something dumb or says something even more maudlin.

He can't remember what exactly was the last thing he said out loud... While he's trying to remember, Viggo changes the topic and asks about Orlando's crazy old clothes and whatever happened to them. Orlando says his publicist told him to stop wearing them, bought him new stylish clothes in dark colors and asked him to dress more conservatively if he wanted to be taken seriously. "Do you want to be taken seriously?" Viggo asks, with a raised brow.

Orlando shrugs and says that it doesn't matter what he wants; his old clothes don't fit him now anyway. He's too big for them. Too fucking bulky.

"And I fuckin' hate it," he whispers, downing the last of the whiskey in his glass.

A moment later, embarrassed at what he's said, Orlando staggers to his feet and excuses himself to bed. He collapses on top of the covers and falls asleep, mind blissfully blank for the first time in what feels like years.


	3. The Right Fit

He wakes up in the middle of the night to piss and realizes Viggo's been in to remove his shoes and cover him up with a quilt. He drinks three glasses of water and takes some aspirin in hopes of preventing the hangover he's surely earned, and goes back to sleep.

In the morning Viggo's eyes feel like they're burning into him and Orlando regrets. He regrets drinking so much, babbling so much, whining so much. Regrets coming here, to a place that doesn't fit, where he feels even less like he belongs in his skin. He regrets that taking a break, leaving LA; it hasn't seemed to help. Regrets telling all of that crap to Viggo last night, regrets that their friendship isn't the same as it was, regrets ever bloody calling Viggo in the first place.

Just regrets. Full stop.

"Hey," Viggo says, giving him a piercing look, "Stop doing that." And Orlando knows Viggo can't read his mind but also knows Viggo knows what he's thinking anyway. Because it's not that uncommon, is it? They're all famous now, everyone who worked on "Rings." They've all been through it. Some to more degrees than others, but still. This isn't the first time an actor has felt fucked over by the industry and the media and the fans and and and. And it won't be the last, either.

Viggo puts it all into perspective, with four words.

Or maybe Orlando is giving him too much credit. Maybe.

Viggo suggests they go hiking today, and hints at fishing but then ends up with his camera stuff instead of fishing gear. Orlando hopes out loud that Viggo's not going to take any shots of him, please, because the flash of a camera just might drive him mad and he'd have to go raving across meadows full of wildflowers and would be sure to spook some elk or something. Viggo smiles a little and assures him that the camera won't be focused at him unless he wants it to be.

They walk for a while, at an easy stride, together. They are of a height and fall into step with each other without effort, somewhere between ambling and walking purposefully. Viggo is taking shots of trees and the horizon and birds, the camera hanging around his neck. The noise starts to annoy Orlando, who can't reconcile the paparazzi-sound with the old Viggo-the-photographer-in-New Zealand-sound. There's nothing wrong with what Viggo is doing, but Orlando's getting cranky anyway and feels like a bratty toddler, and angry with himself because of it.

He takes a few steps away from where Viggo is focusing on... a rock or something, and sits down in the weeds. Stretches out on the hard ground. The sky overhead is the kind of blue that seems unreal, the perfect match to the Crayola "sky blue," with big puffy candy-floss clouds. So clear it goes on forever. Literally, he thinks, since it goes all the way out to the blackness of space. Light on the inside, dark on the outside. How he used to be...

Now he's the reverse, he thinks. But maybe... Maybe he doesn't have to be.

Maybe fuck all of them, the fans and the stalkers and the press and his publicist and all of the whole fucking industry.

Just sod them all.

He used to like it, when Viggo took his picture, in New Zealand. He used to hope it meant something. Was sure it did, in fact.

But wishing doesn't make a thing true. He knows that now. Five years have taught him a lot, mostly things he wishes he didn't know. But he's still here with Viggo, somehow, and whatever it meant to be the focus of Viggo's camera then, it's different now. But it's different from being the focus of the press, media, fans, industry, too. Maybe.

"Vig," he calls out, in a voice that sounds a lot more serious than he ever sounded five years ago. "Can I take your picture?"

Viggo clicks a few more shots and then comes over to him. He unwraps the camera from around his neck and holds it out to Orlando, who is still lying down on the ground. "Like this?" Viggo asks.

Orlando gets up and has Viggo take his place on the ground. There are bits of weeds all over, wild grasses or something, and little bitty flowers, purple and yellow, mixed in. Viggo looks up at the sky, squints a bit, while Orlando fiddles with the focus, getting the hang of it.

It's been a long time since he was on this side of any kind of camera. It's good.

Viggo looks... so alive, out here. He's just lying there, occasionally stretching, moving his hands across the green things growing, taking deep breaths. Sometimes his eyes are closed, sometimes open. He's so beautiful; Orlando can't remember the last time he saw something, someone, like this. Breathtaking.

The sun is at its peak and it's warm. Viggo starts slowly shrugging off clothes, shoes, socks, followed by his button-down shirt. He's such a nudist. So comfortable with his body. Orlando is envious; the last time he felt like that was on a beach on the other side of world, five years in the past. The last time he remembers feeling safe and comfortable and happy in his skin. Blessed by the earth and the sky.

He wants to feel that way again.

"More," he says. And Viggo raises his eyebrows, but takes off his t-shirt. Orlando stands, waiting, and after a few shots, Viggo pulls off his jeans, too. Viggo, naked in the wild grass and flowers. Basking in the sun. At peace.

Orlando isn't sure if he's blessed, to see such a beautiful thing, or thankful to be so honored that Viggo is this comfortable around him, or jealous that it isn't him, lying there in the sunshine so peacefully. All three at once, probably. He takes a bunch of shots, zooming in and out, not thinking about it at all, just moving the camera around. Whatever comes out, it will be great, because it's Viggo and he looks so happy. Is so gorgeous.

Fuck.

And Orlando still wants him after all these years, and the sight of Viggo like this is having an effect on his body. Taking a deep breath, he bends closer, "Can I, uh," he says, and slowly reaches towards Viggo's arm, to move it out of the way.

"You can do anything," Viggo sighs in a voice that sounds drunk or high or just totally serene. "Be anything."

Maybe.

Maybe Orlando really can.

He leans forward and kisses Viggo gently on the cheek. He whispers, "Can I?" into his ear and is answered when Viggo turns his head and meets Orlando's lips with his own.

The kiss is slow, exploring, finding each other. Viggo relaxes, lets Orlando be in control, makes a pleased noise when Orlando's tongue gently spreads his lips apart. The smells of the green things, of the crisp air, of warm Viggo, tease Orlando's nose and that, combined with the first kiss he's really enjoyed in god knows how long, has him moaning, too. He pulls back to look at Viggo for a moment, who smiles and pulls him back for another kiss.

Their mouths explore each other as Orlando's hands trace what his eyes already know so well, reveling in the solidity, the reality of Viggo. A man who is who he is, no apologies, no excuses, and not much uncertainty. Orlando isn't sure for a moment if he wants to *be* Viggo or fuck him, and then decides that it doesn't matter. Viggo's hands are pulling at his clothes and he can figure it all out later; it feels right, so much righter than he's felt in ages. It fits.

The hands on his body are not small and fragile, not cold, with varnished fingernails. Not controlling. They are comforting, strong, and make him feel safe but not trapped. The ground is hard but solid. The sky is warm and clean.

Viggo spreads their shirts out into a makeshift blanket while Orlando takes off the rest of his clothes. Naked, he feels vulnerable and unsure of what they're doing, if it's right, what will come of it.

"Come here," Viggo says, "Lie back," and spreads Orlando out to the sky, bare and exposed, sculpted muscles, straight hair, and all. And Viggo looks at him, really looks, and for the first time Orlando feels *seen*. Not as Orlando Fucking Bloom, but just as himself. Viggo's hands caress him and it feels right; it's *his* body, not theirs, not anyone else's. They don't matter at all, out here, under the benevolent gaze of Viggo's sky-blue eyes.

This is for him. His body is his own.

They roll together, touching and tasting, not hurried, but this isn't lingering, gentle, 'making love', either. Whatever this is, it's what Orlando needs. "Thank you for this," he whispers. Viggo kisses him again, saying everything that means anything, without words. Orlando understands.

And he feels like everything's going to be all right when Viggo rolls back, pulling Orlando on top, spreading his legs apart. "This ok?" Viggo asks in that low rasp, and Orlando nods. He strokes Orlando's cock, then angles it down between his legs. "We can just..." Viggo says, as he squeezes his thighs closed, trapping Orlando's erection, "...unless you have...?"

Orlando nods, and the spell is broken for a moment. Right. Of course he has condoms in his knapsack; his assistants stick them in when they think he's not looking, and he's actually a little touched that they care about his safety and health, even if they do seem to think he's a slut. He's not of course, but it's true he does get lonely some times, and maybe twice a year he takes someone to bed and tries to forget that they're fucking Orlando Bloom, Movie Star, instead of him.

But this is different anyway. Viggo is giving, not taking. Offering, not assuming. Touching *him*, not the shape of his body, not his name, not his celebrity. This is outdoors, under the sky, in the grass. This is not for loneliness or notoriety, but for friendship and comfort and maybe even love. Orlando knows he feels all three.

Viggo is tight, and Orlando tries to be slow preparing him, but his body is shaking; it's been so long since he's had this with another man, with someone who cared about him, and he's wanted Viggo for so long. More than just wanted him, too. He knows Viggo's not ready but he accepts the invitation to "Just do it, please," and pushes in as slowly as he can. He can tell Viggo's in pain, but he seems happy too, a combination Orlando is familiar with. He adds some more lube and starts a steady pace.

Their breathing and groaning gets loud enough to frighten some birds out of a nearby bush, and they both laugh, letting the joy of it all carry them along, higher and higher. Orlando is straining to hold back his climax, can't believe how good this feels, so tight, so strong, so *right*. Not just in his cock, but in his whole body, in his chest, in his heart. For a moment he's not sure if he's on top of Viggo or a divine spirit, a nature god himself.

"This is you," Viggo says, and it doesn't make sense for a moment but then it does, profoundly. And Orlando lets go and shoves in deep and hard, throwing his head back and shouts "YES!" at the top of his lungs and it's the best orgasm he's ever ever EVER had, because it's him, this right now is *him*. For himself, only. And for Viggo, who gave this to him.

He feels his face split into the old grin, an expression that's been gone way too long, but it feels good to grin so big it hurts, as he slides his hand down Viggo's belly. He finds with some surprise that Viggo already came; he says Orlando's joy was irresistible and they laugh long and hard, down to the bone, and the hard earth under them laughs, too.

They roll together, off the impromptu blanket and there's a rock under Orlando's head, but it's still perfect. He feels better than he thinks he's ever felt, like Viggo made him whole again, like his body is his own again, and everything is going to be all right. He isn't his muscles or his face or his hair or his name. He's Orlando Fucking Bloom, who is just him.

He fits.

~end~


End file.
